


Watchers in the Dark

by auri_mynonys



Series: Watchers in the Dark [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Consensual, Desk Sex, Dysfunctional Relationships, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn watches him just as much as he watches her - until one day, she gets caught…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They said it was Gríma who watched her, and Gríma only; but they were wrong.

It seemed to Éowyn a lifetime ago that he had begun to observe her, blue eyes forever pressing on her back. At first it had confused and frightened her, as it confused and frightened everyone else; but Éowyn did not face fear like most people did. She did not turn and run from the things she feared the most. Fear just made her angry.

So she had made it her duty to follow him in turn, as he sometimes followed her; to learn everything about him before he had stripped her bare and discovered all her secrets. By beating him at his own game, Éowyn would come out the stronger, and then she would have nothing to fear anymore.

Or so she’d hoped. But plans have a way of going astray; and hers went terribly wrong almost from the start.

 

* * *

 

The first day of her observations, Éowyn was almost caught.

She had been quietly following Gríma about Meduseld most of the afternoon. She had almost expected to catch him in a net of treachery; her brother and cousin certainly insisted often enough that he was not loyal to their country, that he would turn on all of them in the end if he had not already.

But Gríma’s activities were not nearly so auspicious as she’d hoped. He had spent a few hours checking over the palace accounts, noting what they had in their stores and writing orders for more of what they lacked. Once he completed this onerous task, he had gone on to check that the stables were cleaned and the horses well-cared for – a superficial chore, as all Rohirrim cared for the horses as they might their own children. Then he’d returned to his chambers and firmly closed the door, leaving her outside in the shadows with nothing to observe.

For awhile she had stood outside his chambers, waiting for him to come out; but the waiting soon began to wear on her. Frustrated, she stepped from her hiding place and began to storm off – just as Gríma stepped out from what Éowyn had thought was just a plain wooden wall and walked right into her path.

She drew to a halt with a small gasp. At the sound Gríma whirled to face her, looking nearly as startled as she. Éowyn’s heart thudded hard in her chest. She had to be careful now – had to be as innocent as possible in this, or he would know, would –

She paused, eyes narrowing. Had he just stepped out from a  _wall_?

Éowyn tried to look over his shoulder, but he stepped in front of her at once, smoothly. “Princess,” he said, with a small incline of his head. “What apleasant surprise. It’s not often you grace us with your presence on this side of the hall. Were you coming to see me?”

Éowyn’s mouth dropped open. For a minute she was entirely at a loss as to what to tell him; and it was hard to think under the scrutiny of those bright blue eyes…

At last she came up with an excuse. She drew herself as tall and proud as she could manage, lifting her chin and glaring imperiously at him. “My uncle wishes to know if all is well with the accounts,” she said.

Gríma’s expression shifted, just for a moment. It was a subtle shift, seen only in the slight failing of his smile, the sudden coolness of his eyes. Disappointment did not look well on Gríma son of Gálmód. “Ah,” he said. “Yes, they are perfectly in order. You may tell him I mean to bring them to him this evening, at our usual time.”

So Théoden and Gríma had a  _usual time._ Éowyn filed the fact away for later use. “I shall,” she said. She hesitated, still trying to glance behind him, to see how exactly he had managed to slip through a wall – but he seemed to shift in front of the wall no matter what she did.

“Actually,” Gríma said, just a bit too brightly, “If you’d care to, you may bring them to him yourself.” He held out to her a sheaf of parchment. Éowyn had not even noticed them in her hurry to hide her own guilt. “They should require no explanation from me; and if he has questions he may ask me tonight. If it’s no trouble?”

Éowyn glanced between him and the parchment, suspicion coloring her features. “Well, I had meant to – ”

He didn’t allow her to finish, handing her the parchment before she could protest. “My lady is most kind,” he said, with a quick, swift bow. “Best be off with those as quickly as you may. Your uncle will be wondering where you’ve been if you tarry much longer.”

Still frowning, Éowyn took the parchment from him with a narrow glare. “Very well,” she said stiffly. “But don’t expect me to play your errand girl again.”

“Oh, never, my princess,” Gríma said, with another small bow. Éowyn had the sense that he was mocking her. “Certainly I shall never ask another favor of your assuredly capable person again.”

Now she  _knew_ that he was mocking her. She took a step forward, anger surging in her. “Don’t play that game with me, snake,” she said. “You may think yourself clever, but I see right through you.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing Gríma startled, for just a moment. Before he could recover, she turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving him staring after her.

 

* * *

 

She had meant to stop her game after that – had meant to cease her observations – but she couldn’t stop wondering about that door in the wall.

Late that night she crept down the hall, when everything was still, and passed Gríma’s door once more, finding the particular panel of wood she was searching for. She tapped quietly upon it and listened for an echo, and heard one at once. Cautiously, glancing over her shoulder, she pressed on the panel and pushed it aside.

It was very dark within, as though it led to a passage with no light. She closed the panel behind her as quietly as she could, and crept forward, feeling her way through the darkness. It took only a few moments before she hit a set of doors, small and thin – more like the doors to a wardrobe than the doors to a room.

Éowyn cracked one of the doors open just a little, and realized at once that she was looking in on Gríma’s chambers. It was the books that gave him away: hundreds of them, neatly lined up and carefully dusted on rows and rows of shelves. Scrolls in elegant containers also lined the walls, laid in specially built shelves like honeycombs so that they would not tip, fall, or break.

She had expected his chambers to be as unkempt as his person, but as she opened the door a little wider she saw that everything was neatly kept and remarkably well organized. There was a desk at which five quills sat, all in a perfectly straight line; three inkwells, also lined up perfectly; a sheaf of blank parchment, laid in the direct center of the desk; and a line of books, organized by height and color, at the very far edge of the desk.

Éowyn waited with bated breath to see if Gríma was about; but there was not a single sound in the room.

Feeling very brave, she stepped out of the doors and stepped into the room. One glance behind her confirmed what she had suspected: the secret passage in the wall led to an empty wardrobe. The wardrobe opened onto what seemed to be Gríma’s study. To the left, a small passage led to his bedchamber, which Éowyn feared to enter. Gríma was likely asleep at this hour, and one misstep might wake him.

Still, curiosity got the better of her. She followed the small passage and peeked into the bedchamber, not quite daring to walk inside.

His bed was a large four-poster, draped in black velvet. The drapes had been pulled back and tied; the bed itself was still neatly made, all the furs in place and the cushions straightened.

If Gríma was not asleep, then where was he?

Suddenly there came the sound of footsteps. Quashing a gasp, Éowyn turned and started for the wardrobe again – but not fast enough. Gríma had stepped through the main door to his chambers, glancing warily over his shoulder, with something blue draped over his arm. While he was distracted, Éowyn turned and scuttled off into his bedchamber, desperately looking for a place to hide.

There was a second wardrobe – a real one this time – with one door standing partially opening. She slid inside, tucking herself in behind his cloaks and tunics, and prayed he would not go digging much through his wardrobe for awhile.

He entered the bedchamber moments later, seeming unaware of her presence. He hardly glanced at the wardrobe as he approached his bed, carefully laying out whatever it was he had brought with him. That task completed, he shrugged off his heavy cloak and folded it, setting it on the chest at the end of his bed and positioning it so that it was dead center.

Éowyn’s mouth went dry as he undid the buttons at his back, stepping out of his robes and leaving him only in breeches and boots. He was not strong and burly like her brother or cousin; he was pale and thin, with bruises and cuts lining his flesh. He almost left his robes on the floor, but couldn’t quite seem to be able to make himself walk away. Growling in irritation, he turned and scooped the robes off the floor, folding them as well and laying them by his cloak.

That task completed, he turned back to the blue thing on his bed – a thing that was beginning to look quite familiar to Éowyn. She realized with a start that it was one of her gowns – a thin silken thing, one that clung and swept over her skin like rippling water. It was embroidered in silver and sat at the very edge of her shoulders, slipping off when she wasn’t paying attention to it. It was meant to be a feasting gown, but she had yet to wear it to a feast – in fact, she had only worn it once, that day, as it was for all intents and purposes the most quiet of her dresses.

She had left it for the servants to be washed – she could swear she had – but somehow, Gríma had gotten it instead.

He approached it reverently, as if the dress were Éowyn herself. He lifted it from the bed with gentle hands, bringing it up and burying his face in it. He inhaled, long and deep; and something in Éowyn wrenched and tugged, sending heat boiling in her veins. She had long been told that Gríma watched her with lust in his eyes, that he wanted her in his bed; but to see evidence of the rumors’ truth was something quite different. And it did not make her feel as she had expected; she was not afraid, not horrified. She was  _powerful_. She alone had the ability to undo this man, this man whom everyone else in Rohan feared; she alone could tame and rule him.

Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp exhale that broke the perfect silence of Gríma’s chamber. He stiffened at once, whirling at the sound, the dress bunching in his hand. Almost at once he dove for a knife, a lethal-looking blade without any of Rohan’s usual ornaments upon it. Éowyn pressed her fist into her mouth, desperate to silence her own panicked breathing. Any power she had felt dissipated at once. What would he do, if he should find her here? Would that take her power from her, for him to know that she was watching him as closely as he watched her?

Her fingers groped along the back of the wardrobe. Éowyn hoped against hope that this wardrobe, too, had a secret panel that would let her out. For a long moment her fingers found nothing; but then, at last, she touched a deeply carved notch in the wood, like an engrained handle; and when she pulled, the panel that made up the back of the wardrobe pulled open with a squeak.

Gríma turned towards the wardrobe at once, eyes wide with anger and suspicion. Éowyn swallowed a small cry and forced herself through the thin crack she had made, tearing towards her own chambers as soon as she was free. She ran as though her life depended on it, as though a pack of wolves were right behind her. She heard Gríma curse, still behind her down the hall, as he forced his way out of his own secret passage and started after her. Her breathing ragged, she fled out into the open throne room and past it, into the side of Meduseld reserved for honored guests and the House of Eorl. Her quarters were furthest down the hall. Panic gave her an extra burst of strength as she reached her door; she threw it open with a loud bang and slammed it shut, locking it behind her.

Gasping for breath, she sank down onto the floor, chest heaving. Perhaps he had been too far behind to see her. Perhaps he would not follow her hear to this part of Meduseld. Perhaps –

There came a knock at her door, tremulous at first, then a little harder.

Éowyn forced herself to calm her breathing. She stood, quickly smoothed her hair and nightgown, and hurriedly ran across her room to muss her furs, so that it looked as though she had been sleeping. Thinking better of it, she mussed her hair and nightgown again as well, and approached the door very slowly.

She unlocked it, still trying to calm her racing heart, and came face to face with Gríma.

“My lady,” he said, his breathing just as ragged as hers had been a moment ago. He forced a small bow, though his heart clearly wasn’t in it. “I don’t – I don’t suppose you happened – happened to see – ”

“Have you been running?” she interrupted, attempting to make her voice crack. She always sounded ridiculous in the mornings when she was groggy from sleep; too clear a voice, and he would know. “Has something happened with my uncle? Is all well, counsellor?”

He shook his head, waving a hand to silence her. “No, not that, just – ” He frowned, glancing around her room. His eyes alighted on the bed, and the recently mussed furs. Éowyn glanced over her shoulder and felt her heart pounding against her ribcage. The furs looked as though they had been cast aside, but her cushions were all still in place, clearly not slept on. If he had been in her chambers, he would know.

When she looked back at him, wearing her most innocent expression, he was eyeing her narrowly. “I don’t suppose you happened to be wandering at any point this evening, my lady?” he said. “No restless dreams, no midnight walks?”

Éowyn folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin haughtily. “No,” she said. “I was just about to fall asleep when you came banging on my door, apparently without any great urgency. Is this the way you typically treat a lady, my lord – rousing her from her rest and accusing her of late-night dalliances?”

Gríma flushed scarlet. “I did not intend – ”

“Didn’t you just,” Éowyn said. She was about to break out into a tirade against him when he cut her off, every bit as angry as she was pretending to be.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he spat, leaning towards her. “Someone broke into my chambers just a few moments ago, and ran off this way. No chamber doors opened along his path, save yours, insofar as I can tell. You may be sleeping with an enemy, my lady, and be entirely unaware of it. Now, if I may – I’d like to search your quarters for the intruder.”

Éowyn’s mouth dropped open. “Search my – but – you can’t be in my chambers this late at night with no one else here to – ”

“It is, of course, for my lady’s safety,” he interrupted. “I am quite certain the king and every other person who might otherwise be affronted will understand.”

He pushed past her without another word, ignoring her squeak of protest. “No one has come into my chambers this night save myself and a few servants,” she said. “And the servants left long ago. I tell you, there is no one here!”

“Strange that you should say so,” Gríma said, tearing back tapestries from the wall and tugging at her wardrobe door. “Given that your door opened and closed only a few moments ago. Perhaps you were asleep when the intruder entered?”

“I – perhaps I – ” She bit her lip as Gríma pushed aside a pile of her gowns, stepping inside her wardrobe and rapping at the back. “There’s nothing back there,” she said irritably; then gasped when he pushed the back of the wardrobe aside to reveal a passage.

He looked back at her with a smirk. “Surprise,” he said, mockery dripping from every syllable. “Meduseld is quite full of these passages – useful for getting the House of Eorl to safety in times of danger. It seems a spy has found them out. You are most fortunate, my lady, that he did not stop for you.”

Éowyn blushed. “So it would seem,” she said, forcing the words. How long had that corridor been there, she wondered – and how often did Gríma use it? That must surely have been the way he’d gotten her gown.

Gríma sighed and closed the passageway, stepping back out of her wardrobe. “Whoever he was, he’ll be far away by now,” he said. He turned back to her with a small frown. “Unless… my lady, you’re quite certain you weren’t wandering?”

She glowered. “I think I have a fairly decent memory for where I’ve been in the past few hours, yes,” she snapped.

Gríma raised his hands, a gesture of surrender. The knife in his hand belied the gesture rather badly. “I will take you at your word, princess,” he said. “Strange, though, that a man might come running through your  _locked_  chamber door and into a secret corridor without my lady ever noticing.”

Éowyn’s expression was stony. “I sleep heavily.”

“Hmm.” He scanned her face for any sign of a lie, but Éowyn kept her iciness about her like armor, and prayed it would drive him off. After a few agonizing moments, he shrugged slightly and turned away. “I apologize for interrupting your rest, my princess,” he said. “I pray the remainder of your evening’s rest will give you far less trouble.”

“I pray that  _you_  will give me far less trouble, my lord,” she replied, turning her back to him.

In her mirror, she saw him give a mocking bow. “Good night, my lady. Sweet dreams.”

“They’ll be sweeter without you in them,” she said; and at that parting shot, he turned with a dour frown and left.

 

* * *

 

She had not meant to keep following him after that, but her curiosity got the better of her; and soon, she could not stop.

She learned a thousand little things about him just by watching. She learned that he usually fell asleep at his desk, ink staining his fingers, head resting on his arm. Sometimes he talked in his sleep, but quietly, so quietly that she could not hear him.

She learned that he did not like to eat when everyone else did. He also seemed to prefer preparing his own meals, cooking everything in his private chambers. He kept whatever ingredients he used carefully hidden in a miniature larder, locked behind a bookcase so no one would find it. Éowyn guessed that he feared a poisoning from the care he took with his food; and not without reason. A plate prepared for him and left untouched had been left for the dogs; and the morning had found the dogs dead in the courtyard.

She learned that he was very particular about the placement of his things; that nothing was without its place, and that if someone moved an item even half an inch, he would know.

She took great pleasure in creeping into his room as he slept and switching books, inks, quills. Sometimes she simply moved an inkwell or two an inch to the left, and waited in the shadows to see his reaction when he woke.

If he ever suspected her, he never said a thing.

One night she learned that there was a particular servant girl he liked to bed, one who looked remarkably like Éowyn herself. The resemblance had been commented on before in court, even by the wench herself. Gríma would put her in the dark blue gown he’d stolen from Éowyn and would never call her by her real name. It was always she who brought the dress back, clean and neatly pressed and ready for Éowyn to wear it. When it disappeared out of her closet, she knew Gríma meant to have the servant girl again.

Some nights she stayed and watched them, and returned to her quarters burning with a longing she did not want and could not quench.

Sometimes, out of spite, she wore the dress to court, just to watch Gríma stiffen and go so very, very still in his seat, eyes wide and breath caught in his throat. She pretended not to notice; pretended it was just a dress, and nothing more. But it was hard sometimes to quash her smile.

She soon became so excellent a scholar on Gríma’s habits that she could name every place he’d been in the past week if asked; could tell any who wished to know what he had eaten, and how he had prepared it; could name the hour at which he had fallen asleep, either with his wench or without her. Fortunately, no one ever asked; and Éowyn was careful not to reveal her secrets.

But Gríma had a way of finding out the truth, even when he did not know what it was he wanted to know.

 

* * *

 

It was, surprisingly, a slow undoing, slower than she’d anticipated. She’d thought that one night, he would catch her in his wardrobe, and that would be the end; but it was a rather longer process, one that took its toll on her in ways she had never quite imagined.

He had been following her particularly closely of late, even watching her as she prepared to sleep. She had delighted in showing off for him at first, slowly stripping off her gowns and providing only the smallest views of her skin, teasing him until she could hear his ragged breathing by the wardrobe door.

Over time the performance became exhausting, and the pretense of her own innocence even more wearisome. Once his persistence might have frightened her; now it only irritated her. It took away from the valuable time she could have spent watching him instead. It was tiresome, pretending not to know she was being observed when she could feel his gaze upon her at every moment.

Éowyn trusted in her own wits – perhaps more than she should have – and assured herself that her discovery would never come to pass. Gríma had been growing more restless of late, as his long observations proved; soon he would break, and come to her, and beg. Soon he would be caught in the act by her brother or her cousin, and then he would surely be cast out of Edoras, where he and his desires would finally trouble her sleep no more.

And trouble her they did, more so with each passing day. As she had watched him, she had felt something growing within her – a budding desire, an affection almost akin to his. She had noticed it first when she caught herself smiling at the way he straightened his quills in one long line along his desk. She had been thinking that he had beautiful hands – such long, delicate fingers, pale and graceful and terribly lovely, for a man. Then she had thought that his nose was also rather nice – an elegant nose, lending a sort of regal comportment to his countenance. And his eyes were so bright and blue, almost too bright to look directly into…

She had realized then that she was smiling, and a warm blush was creeping up her cheeks; and with a start she had come to understand that she was  _attracted_ to the bastard – to his ridiculous little habits, and his hands, the heavy cloaks he hid himself inside and the food he prepared – even the way his hair fell over his eyes.

She had almost revealed herself then, for she had gasped aloud in horror. He was not a man that she could love. He was not a choice, had never been a choice; he was the man her brother and cousin hated most, a half-blood bastard loathed by almost all of Rohan. To love him was to betray the House of Eorl, to turn her back on her people.

She had fled almost at once, and had sworn up and down that she would never watch him again – never, if all it did was encourage this stupid infatuation. But she had come back that night, like she always did, and watched him and the wench who bore her face twisting beneath his furs. A hunger had roared to life inside her, quite unlike the previous nights when she had watched them. This was a fire, consuming her whole – a wish, an ache that reached into her very core, that it was her pinned beneath him and not the wench.

Éowyn had fled again, and barricaded herself in her chambers, and had sworn once more never to go back.

 

* * *

 

Then the feast came, and everything changed.

It was the dress’s fault. If she had never worn the blue dress, none of this would have happened, she was certain. She would blame it ever after for the events of that night.

She had worn it out of spite. She always wore it out of spite, but tonight her intent was more vicious, more angry, than it had ever been before. She wanted him to want her. She wanted him to ache and burn and cry out inside, as he had made her burn and want and ache. She wanted to bring him to his knees, to defeat him once and for all.  _You think you can claim me,_ she longed to say,  _But you can never have me._

She had expected him to sit in a dark corner and observe, as he almost always did. She had expected him to behave.

But behave he most certainly did not. The dress seemed to have a strange effect on him that night, stronger than she’d recalled. At the sight of her he seemed to growl, his fingers curling around the stem of his goblet as though to strangle her. His eyes glittered bright and hungry at the sight of her, hair swept back and jewels draped over her skin. The dress might be nice enough on its own, but on her, fully dressed for the festivities, it had quite an effect. The silver belt she wore hung gently at her hips, swaying as she walked; and the dress clung to her like smoke, swirling and catching in all the right places.

He watched her like a starving man watches a cart of apples as they roll past, biting at his lip until it bled. His longing was a palpable thing, a being she could smell and see and taste even from halfway across the room.

Éowyn met his eyes and, stupidly, with triumph singing in her veins, she smirked.

Suddenly something about him changed. His eyes narrowed, mouth dropping open just a little as he considered her; and then he smiled, a slow, triumphant smile that made Éowyn go pale.

With one small smirk, she had ruined herself.

Suddenly the dress seemed like a horrendous idea. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to run. But she did not dare to leave just yet. She turned away from him at once, starting for her brother and her cousin – running, for the first time, from the thing that frightened her most.

And like all nightmares, hers followed closely on her heels.

“Éowyn.”

She froze at the sound of his voice, terror and anger flooding her veins. She turned to him slowly, trying to maintain her composure.  _I am ice,_ she told herself.  _I am stone._ “My lord?” she said, her voice cold and aloof. But even to her ears it seemed to tremble.

Gríma took a step towards her, predatory, greedy. “That dress,” he said. “It looks remarkable on you. An excellent choice for the evening’s festivities, if I may say so.”

_You may not,_ she almost snapped, but he did not pause long enough to give her the chance. “Oh, I’ve interrupted you at something, haven’t I?” he said. Her eyes darted towards the corridor; he followed her gaze. “Ready to leave so soon?” he continued, turning back to her. “You surely don’t mean to change, do you? I’d advise against it. No other gown could be nearly so flattering on my lady.”

Éowyn swallowed, desperate to think of some quick lie. “The dress is of no consequence,” she said. “And I’ll thank you not to be so free with such flattery. Such pretty words may work on your favored whore, but – ”

She stopped at once, mouth dropping open. She had done it again – revealed that she knew of his wench, the stupid cow who took her place each night.

Gríma’s smirk broadened, both brows rising. “Oh, so you know of her, do you,” he murmured, stepping closer. She could feel his breath on her cheek, he was so close. “I might have guessed.” He tilted his head as if to kiss her, still too far back to do so but ready if she gave him the chance. “Every time you wore this dress, I thought you innocent of its meaning,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “Every time you flaunted this gown in front of me, I thought you such a child, so naïve, so unobservant. How could you not question where the gown went, day after day after day? But you never asked because you always knew. You  _wanted_ to torment me.”

She swallowed hard, breath catching in her throat. The ache was rising inside her, louder and so much more insistent than it had ever been. He was so close to her, so close; all she had to do was reach out, and he was hers.

She raised her eyes to his, hungry and eager under her lashes. “Did it work?” she said.

He exhaled sharply, half-gasp, half-snarl; and for one wild moment Éowyn thought he really would kiss her, would snatch her up here in the middle of the Golden Hall and take her, soldiers and servants be damned.

But then Éomer was at her side, taking her arm and drawing her back. “Sister,” he said, smiling at her. “You look lovely tonight. I’ve a friend who wants to meet you – I think you’ll find him excellent company.” He glanced at Gríma disdainfully, eyes narrowing into a vicious glare. “Counsellor,” he said coldly. “May I help you?”

Gríma pressed his lips into a thin line. “I was just – ”

“What? Asking Éowyn for a dance, were you?” Éomer said. “I’m certain she’s not so desperate as to accept such an offer from you. Scurry off and read your books, or whatever it is you do while the rest of us make merry.”

Éowyn had thought, once, that Gríma was the king of hiding what he felt; but she changed her mind at once upon seeing his face. She had rarely seen such naked rage before. There was murder in his eyes and death in his curled fists, and the promise of a hundred fiery torments in the set of his jaw.

He turned his gaze to her and for an instant, it consumed her, swallowing her whole. She inhaled sharply, going weak at the knees. The rage in him had turned into a predator’s desire, ravenous and eager, setting the blood in her veins to boiling. The pure wanting in his eyes made her very skin itch for his hands, his mouth, for any part of him against her. It took all her willpower to wrench her gaze away.

Gríma glanced back her brother one last time, then forced a bow and stormed away, out into his chambers. Éowyn and Éomer stared after him. “Disgusting little bastard,” Éomer said, shaking his head.

Éowyn didn’t hear him. She knew it was stupid; knew, in fact, that it was likely the worst idea she had ever had; but she was going to take the secret passage into his chambers again, and she was going to do it tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn sneaks to Grima's chambers after their prior encounter in the mead hall, and things progress very, very far beyond watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut! Smut everywhere! Possessive desk sex complete with hickies and ink splotches! ;) Enjoy!

Much to Éowyn’s frustration, Éomer refused to let her alone for the rest of the feast night. He introduced her to friend after friend after friend, until Éowyn began to suspect that he was snatching up random men from around the hall and pretending he had known them years just to keep her from quitting the feast.

Finally, well past midnight, when Éomer brought her yet  _another_ potential dance partner, Éowyn politely but firmly refused his entreaties. “I have done nothing but dance all night,” she said, “And I find myself quite exhausted. I am truly sorry to leave you without a partner, but if I dance a moment more I shall collapse right there on the floor.”

Éomer seemed disappointed, but his friend took it kindly and sent her on her way with warm wishes. Éomer, however, could not let it be. “There are unpleasant people who like to wander at this hour,” he said. “Let me go with you to your chambers, at least, to see you there safely.”

“I’m not a child, Éomer,” Éowyn said, anger getting the better of her. “I think I can find my way to my own chambers alone, thank you.”

Éomer looked about the hall, glaring darkly into its shadowy corners. “Meduseld is not as safe as it once was,” he said, lowering his voice. “The way Gríma was looking at you tonight… Éowyn, I think he means to have you, whether you will it or no.”

Éowyn did her best to keep her expression blank.  _What do you know of my will?_  “I am not afraid of him,” she said.

Éomer stared hard at her, his eyes troubled. “You should be.”

Éowyn thought of the Gríma she knew, the Gríma her brother had no conception of: the man who liked to read aloud in his empty chambers, who never sang in court but hummed to himself when he wrote, who cooked his own food and organized his clothes by garment type, formality, and color. Should she be afraid of such a man? He was, she would grant, an intimidating person in many respects. He was cunning, and could see much of men that to others would pass unnoticed. He was outright malicious when he was at his worst, which was often, and he was jealous and possessive of the things he believed to be his. But he would tell her every secret he had ever gathered, would leave his chambers in ruins and set fire to his books, if it meant he could have her.

She smiled thinly. “Perhaps it is Gríma who ought to be afraid of me,” she said, and turned without another word and went.

 

* * *

 

With Eomer’s eyes upon her it had been impossible to take the corridor that would lead her to Gríma’s chambers; but there were other ways of getting to him.

She had yet to take the secret passage in her wardrobe. She had treated it as Gríma’s domain and left it exclusively to his use. She had feared that he might find her there, if she ever chose to use it, before he knew her secret. But now that her secret need no longer be kept, the passage was hers to explore.

She had half-hoped to find Gríma in her chambers when she returned; but upon opening the door she saw no sign of him. Disappointed, she closed the door behind her and searched for any item left disturbed, anything out of place.

Her wardrobe door was open.

Smirking, she approached it on hurried feet and shoved her clothes aside, half-expecting to see him there – but though he had clearly been there sometime in the recent past, he was gone now, leaving the wardrobe’s back panel open for her should she choose to follow.

For a moment, Éowyn hesitated. Perhaps her brother was right. Perhaps she did not have the power she thought over this man. Perhaps she was endangering herself by toying with him like this, by playing his watcher’s game.

She thought of Gríma’s hands, and the way he bit his tongue when he was concentrating –the way he smiled when he held the blue gown in his hands, the smile of a man who wanted but did not dare to touch, brittle and sharp and yet so full of hope; and she could not bring herself to be afraid.

She stepped into the wardrobe and closed the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

The passage was quite a bit longer than Éowyn had imagined, and very narrow in places. Éowyn had to pause a few times to catch her breath, to stop herself from panicking. She had never been fond of tightly enclosed places. But there would be a reward for her at the end, or so she hoped; and so she pushed on, ignoring the tight quarters.

Finally she came to a dead end, a wooden panel that seemed to be just a wall at first. For a moment, Éowyn thought she had taken a wrong turn somewhere; but no, there had been no turns in the passage. This was a door, one way or another; and Éowyn was going to get inside it. Gritting her teeth, she braced herself against the door and pushed, hard.  
  


It took a minute of straining, but the door finally did open, with an enormous creak that made Éowyn wince. The panels at the backs of Gríma’s wardrobes had at least only squeaked; but this sound was sure to attract attention, which took away half the fun.

Éowyn half-hoped he was out, and had not heard her; but no sooner had she stepped out from the door than she saw Gríma, leaning against the wall across from her with his hands folded on his chest and brows raised.

“Well, well,” he said, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

Éowyn sighed and stepped into the room fully, pretending disappointment. In truth her heart was fluttering madly in her chest, threatening to climb up into her throat. “Surprised?” she said, smiling impishly as she pushed the panel shut. It was, in fact, the back of a bookcase, one placed right next to Gríma’s desk.

He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “After tonight’s little display?” he said. “Hardly.” He looked her over with a quick flicker of his eyes, bright and cold in the candlelight. He seemed to note that she had not taken off the blue gown. He dropped his hands, fingers curling inwards as though to stop him from reaching out and grabbing her right there. “You’re either very brave or very stupid to come here after the things you said and did,” he continued. “Did you think you could just slip in as easily as you used to?”

Éowyn shrugged, trying to calm the heavy beating of her heart. She turned away from him and approached his desk, walking her fingers over its surface to touch one of his quills, lying perfectly straight with its companions. “No,” she said, twisting it perhaps a few centimeters to the left. Gríma twitched a little, but made no attempt to stop her. “Nor is it fair of you to say I’m either brave or stupid. Perhaps I’m neither.”

He arched both brows, but did not voice the question.

No matter; Éowyn would do it for him. She turned, wearing the smile of a much older and more experienced woman, and said, “Perhaps I came because I knew you would be waiting.”  
  
Even at this distance she could hear his breathing catch, sharp and sudden. His smile changed to a predator’s grin, all sharp teeth and inevitable triumph. “Now there is a possibility I like,” he purred, pushing himself free of the wall and taking a few painfully slow steps towards her. “Is that why you’re here, precious? To have me?”

Éowyn leaned back against his desk, lifting a quill and running the feather experimentally along her lip. “I should perhaps be affronted to hear you say such things,” she said, running the feather over her lips once more and then down her neck to her collarbone. Gríma traced the same path with his eyes, licking his lips. “But then, I suppose you’re right. I  _did_ come here to have you.”

His smile then could easily have blotted out the sun.

“But perhaps I’m being selfish,” she said, catching the hem of her skirt with one foot and gently pulling it up to reveal her leg, inch by inch by torturous inch. “I would certainly never wish to tempt you away from a path of virtue, after all.”

She had expected him to laugh, to make a joke, even to leap for her at once; but he did nothing of the sort. He did not blink, and did not stop his slow, steady march towards her, staring into her eyes with a hunger that made her heart lurch and stutter. “The only virtue in danger here, pet,” he said, “Is yours.”

Éowyn’s fingers curled tightly around the desk’s edge, to keep her steady; but every inch of her felt as though it were melting at those words, tension coiling and tugging at her with an insistence impossible to ignore. She swallowed hard and primly folded her legs, letting her skirt stay raised at its indecent length. “Should I be afraid?” she asked, smiling playfully, as though this was still a game.

He was no more than three feet away from her now. A few more steps, and he would be upon her. “Perhaps,” he said, very softly. “Though it isn’t like you to run from what you fear.” He paused, tilting his head a little to the right. “Are you frightened, princess?” he asked. “Are you regretting your decision to come here? You know now for certain where this is going, don’t you? The time to go is now, if that is what you wish. You know your exits.” His gaze flickered over her face again, examining her for any signs of weakness. “Are you thinking of a way to run past me and get inside that wardrobe, even as we speak? Are you waiting for your chance to go?”

Éowyn glanced towards the wardrobe at the suggestion. Was he advising her to flee? She would not believe him capable of letting her go, not when she was so willingly offering herself up to him. But what if he meant it? What if this was her one opportunity to flee, and she did not take it? What then?

She knew what. He would take her, and she would beg and scream and moan like his little wench had always done, and the fire in her flesh would finally, after so many nights of yearning, be sated. And she would have him at last, whenever she wanted him, whenever he begged her. He would belong to her.

She smiled, the sort of smile that did not befit an innocent, and unfolded her legs, letting the soft blue of her skirts pool between her thighs. Gríma followed the shifting of the fabric with his eyes, then growled so much like a wild cat that Éowyn nearly jumped. ““I’ll take that as a  _no_ ,” he said, and closed the distance between them in one fell swoop.

He’d stepped between her legs before she could even think to close them. Gasping, Éowyn stiffened, and found herself face to face with him, closer than she’d ever been before. If she’d thought him close enough to kiss her at the feast, then she’d had no idea how close she really wanted him to be. His nose just brushed the tip of hers, his lips hanging a few agonizing centimeters away. “I’ve waited a long time for this,” he said, the words issued on a soft hiss of breath. “And I intend to enjoy every second of it.”   
  


She must have looked afraid, because he smiled and gently kissed the very corner of her lips, too far to be considered a real kiss, but close enough to drive her insane. Her hands scrabbled at the surface of the desk, frantically; and in her hurry to find a purchase, she knocked over all three bottles of ink Gríma had left there, sending them spilling across the wood. Gríma didn’t seem to notice. “Don’t worry,” he breathed, pressing his lips to her ear. “You’re going to enjoy it, too.”

Éowyn gave a growl – more bear than wild cat – and turned her head to his, catching his face in her hands and kissing him hard. He moaned into her mouth and grabbed her around the waist, yanking her against him as hard as he could. She arched against him with a tiny cry, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging desperately to him as he deepened the kiss, teasing her with his tongue. He dropped one hand from her waist onto the desk to support himself, gasping her name between kisses.

He was wearing too many clothes.  _She_ was wearing too many clothes. The dress, thin and light though it might have been , felt like it was choking her in the here and now, strangling every inch of flesh it covered. Squirming, she slipped her arms from around his neck and tried to untie the laces while still kissing him, her fingers shaking. He must have guessed what she was about; he pulled back at once and reached back to do it for her, kissing and sucking at her throat. His fingers caught and stumbled over the knot her servant had tied, tugging and pulling desperately without success; until finally he pulled back, cursing, and took the dress at the neck and tore it down the middle.

“Oh!” Éowyn stared down at the ruined bodice and back up to him, looking wounded. “But this one was your favorite.”

He smiled. “The dress is nice,” he said. “You naked will be nicer.”

For a second, Éowyn sat perfectly still, stunned to silence; then she laughed, a bright, bubbly laugh that made Gríma smile wider. “Very well,” she said, grinning. “Rip it to pieces then, if that pleases you.”

“Oh, it  _does_  please me,” Gríma said, and tore it down to her navel. He knelt on the floor and tore it the rest of the way, breathing heavily as the fabric came away from her. He pushed himself back to his feet and stood back to admire his handiwork, motioning to the sleeves of the dress, still left intact. “Off,” he ordered.

She raised her eyebrows in defiance. “You can’t order your princess about like that,” she said, crossing her legs and folding her arms over her chest, hiding any of the flesh that Gríma most wanted to see. “Servants are punished for speaking like that to their betters.”

He leaned forward, hands landing with a thump on either side of her thighs. “Off,” he snarled. “Or I’ll rip it off of you, slam you back onto this desk, and take you screaming and squirming in that puddle of ink you’ve so nicely left. Wouldn’t that be a joy to explain to your brother – ink all in your hair, at the curve of your lips, traced like a hand print along your throat…”

Undaunted, Éowyn unfolded her arms and set her hands by Gríma’s, fingers coiling in the ink puddle. His eyes darted downwards, to where the fabric parted to expose her breasts, and he made a small sound in the back of his throat, part snarl, part cry. Éowyn smiled fiercely at the sound. “My, won’t we both have quite a bit to explain in the morning?” she said, and caught the back of his neck with one inky hand, pulling him down to kiss her again.

He gasped into her mouth, immediately deepening the kiss. His hand shifted, diving for the puddle of ink and then catching her bright blonde hair. He pulled, hard, tearing her mouth from his and exposing her throat. “I suppose we will,” he hissed, and bit down on her throat and sucked.

Éowyn twitched and moaned, trying to tug her hair out of his grip, to no avail. While he had her vulnerable, he pushed back the ruined gown, exposing her pale skin. With an almost maniacal grin, he moved from her neck to her collar bone, biting and sucking a path down to her breast and tracing the ruin left in his wake with inky fingers, leaving finger and hand prints wherever he touched.

“I am going to devour you,” he said, voice ragged and hoarse with longing. “I will mark every last inch of your flesh as mine. I will write my name on you in ink and blood and seed, until that name is the only word your tongue can speak. You will scream it to the rafters and all of Meduseld will hear you, and everyone will know that you belong to me.”

He released her hair and slipped down between her thighs, planting a kiss on one and then sucking hard at the skin, smiling when she gasped. “Let’s start here,” he purred, and began to trace the letters of his name upon her skin in ink, darting forward to slide his tongue between her legs.

Éowyn cried out sharply and then bit her fist, hard, burying her other hand in his hair. This she had never seen him do to his wench; this she had not expected. She had not expected the incredible sensation of his tongue, either, tweaking and teasing her so intimately. Her legs trembled beneath his hands, the long pale fingers still tracing the letters of his name on the inside of her thighs.

She cursed him in every way she could imagine, tilting her hips to better gain access to his tongue where the ache was strongest. He teased and pushed until Éowyn was nearly sobbing, knuckles white from gripping the desk so tightly; then suddenly he rose, tugging off his tunic and casting it aside like it was nothing. Éowyn half expected him to go after it and fold it, as she’d seen him do a hundred times; but he stayed with her instead, catching her inky fingers and laying them on the laces of his breeches. He was ragingly hard against her palm; and at the touch of her fingers his eyes fluttered closed, mouth parting in a small gasp.

Fingers shaking, Éowyn leaned forward and undid the laces, stumbling through the knots and ties. She wanted to hurry, wanted so much to free him and have him  _now._ She wanted to ride him like her finest steed and watch him pant and moan beneath her. She wanted to pin those beautiful hands to his ridiculous bed and watch his fingers curl and uncurl in a desperate attempt to touch her. She wanted anything and everything he could give her, and she wanted it at once. All that was between her and what she wanted were a few stupid laces.

Finally the laces came undone. Éowyn watched, biting back her grin as Gríma stepped out of his breeches and tossed those aside too. She slipped off the desk and let the remainder of her dress fall to the floor in a heap, watching for Gríma’s reaction.

Any self-control Gríma had had up until that moment snapped at the sight of her completely naked form. He snatched her up in his arms and kissed her, violently pressing his mouth to hers. She moaned into his mouth and threw her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against him and gasped when he scooped her up and practically threw her back onto the desk, parting her legs with a fearsome growl. He caught her thigh in his hand and drew her leg up around his waist, angling her hips so that the tip of his cock just brushed her folds.

He pulled back, just for a moment, to look at her, blue eyes locked on hers. “Tell me you want me,” he said, very softly.

“I want you,” she whimpered, squirming desperately against him.

He leaned his forehead against hers, unblinking, very still. “Say my name.”

“Grima,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him.

He caught her hips and gently pulled her forward, until just the head of his cock was inside her. “Say it – say it again,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Grima,” she repeated, her voice rising. Oh lord, she wanted all of him, wanted him in her as deep as he could go. She wrapped her legs around his waist and slid herself down his length, feeling his fingers tighten on her thighs and hearing his breath hitch.

“Again,” he said.

This time when she said it, it was almost a sob. “ _Grima!_ ”

At that he lifted her up and laid her down onto the desk completely, bending over her and thrusting inside her all the way up to the hilt. Éowyn screamed, wrapping her arms around him and bucking her hips desperately. Now his name spilled unprompted from her lips, a frantic plea for more. He took her mercilessly, stroking and thrusting until her cries had dissolved into a long string of curses. As predicted, she soon forgot even those words, and could only scream his name, over and over and over again. She clutched at his back, leaving long, inky finger stains across his pale flesh; and sometimes, when a thrust went particularly deep, she drew blood. In turn, dark marks crowned her thighs where his hands clutched her, so hard there would doubtless be bruises in the morning. It didn’t matter – none of it mattered – nothing mattered but him and his body and the growing ache spiraling higher and higher and higher until it burst and sent her screaming and arching against him.

She clung to him for many long, slow heartbeats afterward, still trying to catch her breath. The room was spinning madly, and he was the only real and solid thing she had to cling to.

It seemed to take Gríma just as long to come back down. Still shaking, still gasping, he lifted her off the desk and carried her, stumbling, into his bedroom, where he gently laid her on his bed and crawled in beside her. He circled his arms around her waist and folded her against him, curving her body alongside his like spoons nestled in a drawer. Éowyn folded her hands over his and murmured his name, eyes fluttering closed; and then all she knew was darkness.

 

* * *

 

She awoke in her own bed the next morning, covered in furs and dressed in a fresh shift, with two servant girls whispering nearby. “She sleeps like the dead,” one was saying, as Éowyn’s eyes fluttered open. “The morning grows late, and still she hasn’t stirred.”

“It was a late night for all of us,” the second girl said. “Let her sleep.”

There was a pause. In that pause Éowyn remembered the events of the previous night, eyes widening at once. Had it all been a dream? Had she imagined her entire encounter with Gríma? Impossible. It had all felt so real…

“I wonder what happened to her hair,” the first girl said, suddenly. “It’s turned blackish in places.”

“Looks like an ink spill to me,” said the second girl. “She probably knocked over some ink last night while she was a little tipsy.”

Éowyn bolted to her feet at once, heart hammering in her chest. The mere thought of ink sent a shiver through her. Had Gríma brought her back here, then, and left her with the evidence of her night with him?

_He would, the bastard,_  she thought, grabbing for her looking glass.  _I always knew he was jealous and possessive…_

She lifted the glass and gasped.

“My lady,” the first girl said, hurrying to her side. “We’re so sorry, we didn’t mean to wake – oh!”

Both girls froze at the sight of Éowyn, bruised and bloodied and inked everywhere. There was a bite on her neck and a bite on her shoulder, ink at the corner of her lips and tucked lovingly behind her ear, left in the form of a thumbprint on her cheek. There was ink caked and dried in her hair, and the sort of bruises only a mouth could leave lining her skin from chin to breast. Éowyn did not even dare to look beneath her shift; she knew his name would still be there, written five times at least in case anyone should dare to question his claim.

“My lady, what happened?” the second girl cried, a hand still pressed over her mouth.

Éowyn set down her looking glass and turned to them, her expression stony. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I need a bath.”

 

* * *

 

If she had hoped the bath would clean the marks off, she was sorely disappointed. No matter how hard she scrubbed, the thumbprint on her cheek would not go away entirely; nor would his name, emblazoned on each thigh in bold letters. The ink in her hair washed out a little, but her hair was still dull gray in places from its stain. It would take weeks to get it out, she realized; and weeks for the bruises and bite marks he’d left to heal.

Not that he would ever let them alone long enough to heal.

In the end, she gave up on trying to wash out the stains and settled for wearing a high-collared gown and braiding her hair. The thumbprint could be innocent enough when considered on its own, just a little clumsy spill that went awry.

If the servant girls kept their mouths shut, everything would be fine.

Éowyn hurried to meet her uncle and the rest of her family for the noon meal, praying they would not notice anything amiss.

Everyone else was already there when she arrived – Gríma also. He looked up at her with mischief in his eyes and a smirk at the corner of his lips, and offered her a bow that was a tad too deep to be sincere. “Princess,” he said. “You’re looking well this morning. You have a certain glow about you. You must have had a truly refreshing night’s rest.”

Éowyn swallowed the thousand retorts that rose to her tongue and dropped a perfect curtsy. “I’ve had more restful nights,” she replied airily, and turned away from him without another word.

She bit back a smile as she imagined the shock and irritation on his face. He would make her pay for her aloofness, she was certain.

She would look forward to it.

She chatted and laughed with her brother and cousin for awhile, ignoring the way Gríma’s eyes burned into her back. She thought today would be a truly fine day – until Théodred spotted the thumbprint.

“Cousin,” he said, frowning. “You have a spot on your cheek.”

Éowyn’s fingers rose to touch it, blushing prettily. “Oh, I just had an accident with a bottle of ink,” she said. “Clumsy of me, really. I didn’t notice until it was too late.”

She smiled. Éomer went to laugh, but then, from behind her, Gríma spoke.

“Strange,” he said, voice insinuating itself between them all.

Éowyn whirled to face him, clenching her fists. “What’s strange, counsellor?” she asked, gritting her teeth. “You’re certainly no stranger to my clumsiness. As I recall, you liked to tease me about it often when I was just a child.”

Gríma was smiling, a slow, steady smile that she did not like one bit. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just I had an awfully similar accident this morning.”

He held up both his hands, stained pale purple-gray from what was left of the ink; and it seemed to Éowyn that he kept his thumb in particular very apparent, close enough to her face that the size could almost be matched.

The color drained from Éowyn’s cheeks. “Did you indeed,” she said in monotone. “How peculiar.”

He raised both brows and shrugged, putting down his hands. Éowyn wished she felt relief; but the damage was done. Théodred merely looked puzzled at the coincidence, but Éomer was looking at her like he had never seen her before, and had just encountered her for the very first time – and he didn’t like what he saw.

“One must assume the ink is possessed, if it all behaves this way,” Gríma continued, smiling congenially. “I do hope yours behaves better in the future.”

“Perhaps if  _you_  behaved better in the future you wouldn’t have so many accidents,” Éowyn said, before she could stop herself.

Gríma’s smile lost any pretense of innocence at that. “I shall certainly endeavor to behave myself then, my lady, if it please you,” he said with a bow. There were a hundred things Éowyn wanted to say in retort, none kindly, but Gríma rose and cut her off. “Good day then, princess,” he said. “Éomer. Prince Théodred.”

He sauntered off, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. Éowyn nearly followed him, but paused when her brother came to stand beside her. He reached out and tilted her chin towards him, touching the spot on her cheek. “That’s a rather large thumbprint for a woman’s hand,” he said. “Looks a bit more like a man’s.”

“It smudged,” said Éowyn, keeping her expression blank.

Éomer stared at her searchingly for a moment. Finally he released her chin and turned away. “No more  _accidents,_  Éowyn,” he said. “No one is so clumsy as to make that kind of mistake twice.”

Éowyn clenched her fists and stared after him, anger smoldering in her gut. For a moment she thought of going after him, of denying any involvement with the counsellor he so hated; but rebellion sprung up inside her like a weed, and she turned on her heel instead and followed after Gríma.

_Well, brother, perhaps **I**  am._


End file.
